Perhaps there once was a time when you could happily wet the bed, play with your faeces or your sister, barge into your parents bedroom without knocking and still grow up to be a relatively pulled-together human being unburdened by the weight of repressed guilt. Perhaps. But such a golden age was certainly dead by the turn of this century: killed by Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) who sat, Svengali-like, with notebook in hand behind the famous couch in Vienna.